Page 17 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

By the time I get home, I’m wrung out. The day at the shop was a blur of shelving and pretending I wasn’t unravelling, but the moment the door clicks shut behind me, the silence presses in.

I kick off my shoes, swap my cardigan for an oversized t-shirt, and curl up on the sofa with the book I grabbed on the way out. Bride by Ali Hazelwood. Comfort read. Familiar, funny, romantic in that swoony way I always swore I was above.

I trace the corner of the page with my thumb, but the words blur. Every line swims with the memory of Hunter’s hands on me, the way his voice broke when he said my name.

My skin still tingles where he touched me. My thighs ache from the way I clung to him, my lips swollen like proof. My body doesn’t know the difference between want and danger. To my heart, both feel the same.

I slam the book shut. “Get a grip,” I mutter.

And then my phone buzzes.

I reach for it without thinking—half-expecting Ruby, maybe even some reckless part of me hoping for Hunter.

My stomach plummets.

I know that number. I haven’t seen it in weeks, but I could never forget it.

Every instinct screams at me to let it ring, to throw the phone across the room, to never hear his voice again.

But some things you can’t ignore. My thumb swipes before I can stop it.

“Hello?” My voice is barely there.

“Isabella.”

I freeze. My father’s voice pours down the line like ice water, smooth and controlled, every syllable sharpened to cut.

“Dad.” The word scrapes my throat raw.

“I hear you’ve been keeping busy.” His tone is casual, conversational, but it makes my skin crawl. “The mum’s suits you. Mr. Whittaker’s a kind man, isn’t he?”

My blood runs cold. “How do you—”

“You always leave at the same time,” he continues.

“You check the door twice. Three, if you’re distracted.

Your cardigan slips off your shoulder when you shelve the higher stacks.

And when you think no one’s watching, you sit behind the counter and read instead of working.

” His voice drips through the line like oil.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? ”

The room tilts.

“And the coffee shop,” he adds. “The Maple Bean. Vanilla latte. Extra shot. Ruby talks too much when she pours it. Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you lean on her?

Or how you laugh differently when that boy’s in the room?

” His tone turns cruel. “You forget I taught you how to keep your tells hidden. Now I see them everywhere.”

“You’re watching me,” I breathe.

“I make it my business to know where my daughter is. Especially when she’s surrounding herself with people who don’t understand who you really are.”

That’s what makes his warning land like a punch. When my father says he’s watching, it isn’t paranoia. It’s a promise.

“They’re just friends,” I snap, too fast.

A low hum. “Friends who think they can protect you? Or is it just one in particular?”

My breath hitches.

“You’ve always been reckless with boys,” he says softly. “Even Nathan couldn’t stop you.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Remind you of the mess you left behind?” His words are knives, slicing slow and deliberate. “You can run, Isabella. But you can’t hide. Not in Maplewood. Not anywhere.”

The line goes dead.

The silence swallows me. My gaze skitters around the room, wild. The lamp in the corner—has that always been tilted? The window latch? My chest heaves, panic clawing higher with every corner I check.

My skin crawls. I’m shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.

My thumb hovers over another name—Fuckboy glaring back at me. I shouldn’t. He promised me space.

But I can’t breathe past my father’s voice in my ear.

Before I can stop myself, I hit call.

“Well, well,” Hunter drawls, cocky even through the static. “Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you this soon. Miss me already, princess?”

The laugh that tears out of me is shaky, broken. “Hunter—”

The banter vanishes. His voice sharpens. “What happened?”

“He called. My dad. He knows—about the mum’s, about Ruby, about everything. He’s watching me. I don’t know how—”

“Isabella. Breathe.” His voice slices through the panic. “Slow. In. Out. With me.”

I try, but my chest is still heaving. I yank the curtain shut with trembling fingers.

“Where are you?” he demands.

“Home.” My voice cracks. “I locked the door but—”

“Good. Keep me on the line. Don’t hang up. I’m already in the car.” A door slams, an engine roars. “Check everything. Windows. Back door. Tell me as you go.”

I stumble from room to room, fumbling bolts, yanking curtains. Each click is too loud, each shadow too sharp.

“Hunter, what if he’s already been in here? What if—”

“Stop. He’s not in there. I’d know.”

“How?”

A beat, then low, certain: “Because you called me. And while you’re on this line, you’re mine to protect.”

My knees almost give out. “I’m scared.”

“I know.” His tone softens. “But nothing touches you while I’m breathing. You hear me? Nothing.”

“Two minutes out,” he adds, voice dropping lower.

Through the line I hear the engine snarl. A horn blares faintly, his muttered curse bleeding through the receiver. He’s driving too fast, but all I feel is relief.

“Hunter—”

“Keep talking. Don’t hang up.”

Headlights sweep across my front window.

“Open the door,” Hunter says. “It’s me.”

I creep to the peephole. And there he is. Not the cocky grin I’m used to, but Hunter Hayes—grease streaked, tattoos ink-dark, overalls slung loose over a clingy t-shirt. A mechanic’s mess, but somehow he looks like salvation.

My fingers tremble as I shove the bolt aside.

The second the lock clicks, I throw the door open and launch myself at him.

“Isabella—” he starts, catching me. My arms wrap tight around his neck, face pressed into the warm crook of his shoulder. My whole body shakes.

“Hey.” His voice is low, rough. “Careful, I’m all gross. Straight from the garage—”

“I don’t care,” I choke.

His chest rises against mine, a heavy exhale. Then his arms band tighter, one hand sliding into my hair, the other anchoring at my back.

“Fuck, princess,” he murmurs into my temple. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I was scared,” I whisper. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did the right thing.” His grip tightens. “You called me.”

Hunter shifts me gently, catching my hand in his grease-streaked grip. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you inside before people start talking.”

He locks the door behind us, bolts sliding home. When he turns back, he’s smiling—softer, calmer. Steady in a way I didn’t know I needed.

“You’ve got more locks than my workshop,” he mutters, testing each one again.

My chest is still tight. Instinctively, I clutch his hand harder.

Hunter chuckles quietly, kisses my knuckles, and whispers, “Easy, princess. You’re safe. Go sit down. Let me handle this.”

I sink onto the sofa while he moves through the flat, checking locks, cupboards, shadows. He rattles every handle, tests every bolt twice, muttering curses under his breath. Somehow, it’s comforting.

Watching him stalk through my space like that, broad shoulders tense, tattoos smudged with grease, it hits me—this should terrify me. But for the first time tonight, my pulse slows. Because as absurd as it is, I believe him. Nothing touches me while he’s breathing.

“You eaten today?”

“I… I don’t remember.”

“Figures.” He shoots me a look. “Toast? Tea? Anything. Just not a vanilla latte. You’ll never sleep.”

Despite myself, a shaky laugh slips free. Hunter grins. “There she is.”

By the time he’s finished pacing, he’s shaking his head at the barren kitchen. “Alright, princess. Tomorrow I’m dragging you food shopping. Actual groceries. Revolutionary, I know.”

I groan. “I hate vegetables.”

“You hate most things that are good for you.” His mouth curves. “Lucky for you, I’m persistent.”

I throw a cushion. He catches it easily, smirking.

Then, softer: “Takeaway tonight? Or do you want me on the menu?”

Heat flares. “You’re disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” He presses a hand to his chest. “Princess, that hurts.”

“McDonald’s,” I mutter. “When I lived in London, it always made me happy.”

“What’s your order?” he presses, pulling his phone out.

“Big Mac. Large fries. And nuggets. Always nuggets.”

“Twenty?” His grin is wicked.

“Ten,” I correct. “With barbecue sauce. Don’t you dare swap it for sweet and sour.”

“Noted,” he says, typing fast, eyes glinting.

“They remind me of Nathan,” I admit quietly, the name slipping out. “We used to sneak them after… things. He’d make a whole production out of ordering two apple pies just to see if he could get the server to laugh.”

My throat tightens. Hunter doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease. Just nods once and keeps typing, as if holding that memory safe.

His grin softens. “Then McDonald’s it is.”

Hours later, wrappers litter the table. Hunter sprawls on the floor, cheeseburger in hand, smirking up at me.

“This,” he says, mouth full, “is real friendship. Forget wine and candlelight—show me a girl who downs nuggets, and I’ll show you true love.”

“Shut up.” I toss a fry. He pops it in his mouth.

For the first time all night, my chest feels lighter.

The grease slicks my fingers. When I reach for a napkin, Hunter beats me to it. He wipes my hand himself, slow and deliberate. My throat tightens at the intimacy—so ordinary, so soft, yet it burns hotter than the kiss under the stars.

Without thinking, I brush at the smear of oil on his forearm, my thumb lingering a second too long. The contact jolts us both.

His smirk fades, gaze steadying on mine.

“You ready to talk about it now?”

His voice is steady, but there’s something else underneath it. A dare. A promise.

My stomach twists. And just like that, the night shifts.